


Frannie and Giovanni

by orphan_account



Series: Frannie and Giovanni [1]
Category: In The Cut (2003)
Genre: Anal Play, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingerfucking, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:31:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She drives him fucking crazy, with her words and her brains, and he can't figure her out, but he can't let her go, either.</p><p>(Spoilers in the notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frannie and Giovanni

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen the film or read the book, you may disregard anything alluding to the events therein, as this is primarily comfort sex.

"What the fuck, Frannie."  
  
I lie in the curve of his arm, staring at the floor. It's covered with water from the broken radiator, the pipe he's still cuffed to. The pipe I shackled him to before running out of my apartment in sheer panic. _Where the hell did I think I was going?_  
  
"Hey. That's not your blood, is it."  
  
I'm so tired, but his arm tightens, shaking me.  
  
"Frannie, talk to me, damn it. What the fuck happened."  
  
The words are different from those he'd been yelling as I ran away.  
  
 _"Frannie, give me the fucking key! Get me out of these! Now, right now!"_  
  
Now he sounds, not softer or gentler, not even weary, so much as resigned. Maybe a little worried.  
  
"Don't go to sleep," he says, demanding. "Don't. Tell me what happened, whose blood is this."  
  
I manage to move my hand, to pull the key out of the pocket of his jacket, the jacket I'd unaccountably taken along when I ran. His arm is curled around me, under my head, across my chest, like he's trying to save me from sinking. I tuck the key into his hand and let my arm fall.  
  
He slithers out from under me, laying my head down gently as he struggles to sit up and unlock the handcuffs. I hear them clang as they fall back against the pipe, and then his two hands are under me, lifting me up and turning to lay me on the bed.  
  
"You're freezing," he mutters. Doesn't cover me up, though. My eyes are closed, so heavy, but I can feel his hands, not caressing, but investigating, checking bone and tissue and pulse.  
  
His hand slides up to cup my ass, and he says, "Frannie, were you raped?"  
  
 _Why would he ask me that?_ Then I remember, I ran out of here with his jacket but without my underpants. Without, because I'd just finished fucking him while he was chained to my radiator, sitting in my kitchen chair. The sound that escapes me is more of a snort than a laugh.  
  
"Answer me, dammit, were you raped?"  
  
"No."  
  
The hand on my butt relaxes.  
  
"Whose blood is this?"  
  
"Richie."  
  
"Richie, my partner Richie? Rodriguez?"  
  
 _Is there any other Richie? Cover me up and let me sleep._ It strikes me that he doesn't sound as surprised as I was.  
  
"You knew," I whisper. Finally he's pulling up the covers and tucking them close around my neck. He smooths my hair back from my face, my hair still spotted and stiff with blood, Richie's blood.  
  
"I didn't," he says. "Swear to God, I didn't. I put it together just now, while I was lying here on your floor. Meditating."  
  
His weight leaves the bed and he says, "I gotta call the precinct. They'll send somebody over, I won't leave, you know that."  
  
"I know," I say and then I sleep.  
  
=======  
  
This time I don't vomit. Maybe because this time, I didn't find my sister's disarticulated body. Maybe because I'm not the victim, technically, I'm the perpetrator, the _perp_.  
  
I sit on my bed and answer questions put to me by a policewoman. In the background I hear the hum of Malloy's voice, and the man he's talking to, not his superior, a colleague. They're in the kitchen, as far from me as they can get, so I can't make out the words.  
  
The men are banished to the hall and the door is shut while the policewoman and a medic take skin samples, blood samples, scrape under my fingernails. They ask me gently whether they need to get a rape kit and I shake my head.  
  
"He didn't rape me," I say. "I had sex with someone else, before, not with him. Consensual."  
  
That strikes me as funny, because consensual and handcuffs seem incongruous on the surface, so I laugh for a solid five minutes and then taper off into hyperventilation. The two women watch me like I'm going to dodge them and jump out a window.  
  
The thought did occur to me at least once in the last week. But not today.  
  
"I'll see you back at the precinct."  
  
His voice, shifted into neutral for his conversation with his fellow law enforcement officers. His murmur follows the footsteps to the door, closes the door on them, shoots the bolt. I don't hear his feet as he walks here and there, opening and shutting cabinets and dropping rags and towels on the wet floor.  
  
He comes over to the bed, where I'm still sitting, and I see that his feet are bare, his white shirt, soaking wet, hastily buttoned before the other police arrived. His belt is buckled securely over his usually immaculate trousers, his badge still clipped to it.  
  
He stands in front of me and I take hold of his belt and lean in to press my face against his stomach.  
  
"Didn't we just finish cleaning you up?" he says softly.  
  
=======  
  
He strips me and puts me in a hot bath, for the second time that day, making sure I'm not going to fall asleep and drown while he goes to put clean sheets on the bed. He comes back to soap and rinse my hair, as my arms are sore from getting yanked around by his partner. Ex-partner. Late partner.  
  
"I'm sorry," I whisper.  
  
"Shut up," he says, pulling the plug and letting the water drain. "You got nothing to be sorry about."  
  
I'm not sorry I shot his partner. I'm only a little sorry that I thought he was a killer. I'm more sorry that he had to lie in a pool of water, chained to a pipe, while the crazy woman ditched him and went right into a trap. It occurred to me, on the long trudge home, that if I'd been slaughtered like the others Malloy would have been stuck until kingdom come, shouting out the windows, trying to get someone to come and get him loose.  
  
For some reason, that bothers me more than the thought that I might have got myself killed.  
  
He bundles me into bed without a nightgown, without a stitch, and he burrows in behind me, also without a stitch, the heat and scent of him rolling over me like a familiar fog.  
  
"Go to sleep," he murmurs. "I'm right here, go to sleep."  
  
=======  
  
When I finger myself, in bed, when I masturbate, it's always with my hands tucked under me, always through a layer of fabric, never my bare fingers on my clit. I wake to the sensation of bare fingers between my labia, calloused fingertips, gentle touches. His fingers trace up and down, occasionally dipping inside to draw out more moisture, resuming their slow rhythm.  
  
The skin of his cock is soft, a sleeve over the solid flesh beneath, brushing against my buttocks. My spine stiffens slightly, forerunner of a distant orgasm, and his hand leaves off petting me to press my hip down, tipping me on my back. He looks me in the eye as he palms my mound, rubbing so gently, his erection, neglected, bumping my thigh.  
  
My hand rises to touch him, fingers spread over his hair, his face, his lips.  
  
"He kissed me," I say in a thin, cracked whisper.  
  
His expression remains still as he bends to touch his lips to mine. It's not enough; I let my mouth fall open and he takes it at face value, an invitation, a need, a demand. Both my hands are in his hair, clinging to his head as his tongue slides and probes and suckles mine. His hand squeezes between my legs.  
  
At last I can forget that other kiss, actually both of them, Cornelius and the other one. They've been erased by this firm drawling mouth, this tongue, the one that's tasted my toes and ass and pussy and tits and mouth and all.  
  
I shudder and break off, gasping, and he takes my hand and kisses the palm, the heel, licks up to the ends of my fingers. Then he lays my hand on my breast, curling my fingers around it like he's giving me a present.  
  
"These," he murmurs. "You know, mouth, pussy, ass, a man can fuck into you every which way. You can take it - "  
  
 _"I want to watch you fuck yourself," he muttered, chained to the pipe._  
  
" - or he can make you take it, fill you up with his cock and his come. But these - "  
  
He bows to breathe words over my nipple.  
  
"These were made for one thing, to go in a mouth, a perfect shape and size, a perfect fit. The one thing a woman can put into the body of another, not taking in, but giving."  
  
The flat of his tongue presses slowly over the tip of my nipple as I tighten my grip, squeezing my breast up, presenting it to him. He licks circles around the apex, urging it into further arousal, and his middle finger sinks between my labia, not rubbing or entering, just laying it down.  
  
His mouth closes over my breast, so gently and slowly that I can feel every movement, and he sets his tongue against my nipple and sucks. There's no explosion, barely a ripple of desire in the pit of my stomach, a slow burn as he increases the movement and pressure of his mouth. By the time he switches to the other nipple I have spread my legs wider and his finger has moved down, entering my body and holding still.  
  
My hands roam over his shoulders, neck, head while his tongue pulls at my nipple and I tease the other, wet and pink and firm under my fingers. My other hand goes down to grope for his cock, but he shakes his head, my tit between his lips, and shifts to lie on his stomach, tucking himself out of reach. Briefly his hand leaves my pussy to get hold of mine, guiding it down, fingers twining with mine, circling and teasing my vagina, eventually pushing my finger inside and then joining in with one of his.  
  
I bend my knee, feeling a cramp coming and then fading, lift it higher, taking my hand off my breast to hold my leg, folded high toward my chest. Another finger pushes into me and his mouth travels down, tongue swirling over my navel, velvet mustache brushing over my skin. He doesn't linger there, but shifts his body downward. I pull my finger out of my vagina and tangle my hand in his hair as his mouth settles between my legs.  
  
He doesn't dive right in. I know him by now; he wants to take me apart, watch my body as he plays it. His hands and mouth are confident and familiar.  
  
He's murmuring against my thigh as he kisses and nuzzles.  
  
"You're something, Frannie, you know that, don'tcha? You make me fucking crazy, with your words and your brains and your hands and mouth. Crazy like nobody does. Throw yourself into life like it's a fucking bonfire, like I'm licking a lit match..."  
  
As if he can't bear any more delay, his words break off and he buries his tongue between my lips, pulls his fingers out and pushes them both straight into my ass, no stopping or waiting or stretching. His other hand snakes up, fingers stretching to fondle a tit. My body is arching, twisting to get more of his hands, his mouth.  
  
I grab my other knee and hold it, both legs high and wide, his head rolling between my thighs as he fucks me, tongue licking up and flicking my clit, circling, then sweeping down, back up to do it again. Fingers pump rapidly into the tight squeeze of my ass, a steady pistoning movement. A thick thumb wedges between those two points, wriggling into my vagina, rubbing fast but not too hard.  
  
The soles of my feet land on his shoulders, my hands seize my breasts and for the first time this evening a sound comes out of my gut, a gasp, a grunt, a plea. His thumb slides out and up, pressing gently against my clitoris, and he bends over me, his lips moving.  
  
"Just like this," he murmurs. "Do it, baby, you got it. Right there."  
  
And it is right there, the height I'm hurtling toward and then slamming into, every limb jerking, his mouth open and hot on my belly, fingers stroking mercilessly in my ass and pussy.  
  
I'm still in the middle of it when he ducks under my thigh, tipping me over on my stomach, and I push my hands down between my legs, humping, gasping for more. Over the sound of my orgasm I hear the ripping of a condom packet, and then his hands are lifting my hips, caressing my butt, parting my cheeks as he slowly enters my vagina.  
  
 _He watched his cock move in and out of me._  
  
 _"You like watching," I said._  
  
 _"Yeah," he said. "I like it in the cut."_  
  
He spreads his hands over my ass, not pushing or pulling but steadying me while he thrusts. My fingertips bump into his cock and he groans.  
  
"Come on," he says. "Feel it in your hands, how your pussy wants it. I want you to come on my dick, all over me, come on."  
  
My mouth is muffled in the sheets and my pelvis is thrashing up and down on my fingers, on his cock. I cry out and he fucks hard and fast and grabs my ass with one hand and the back of my neck with the other and groans and comes right after me.  
  
I sprawl, throbbing under the weight of him on my back, and he pulls in his arms and legs until I'm surrounded, and he kisses the back of my neck and whispers in my ear.  
  
"Fucking crazy, you hear me?"  
  
I smile.

**Author's Note:**

>  _In The Cut_ is a 2003 film based on a crime novel written by Susanna Moore, adapted by her and Jane Campion for film. It's grisly in places, but the characters fascinate me. 
> 
> The ending of the book is different from the ending in the movie, and I prefer the movie version, in which Frannie manages to kill her would-be killer and hikes home in a daze. The book does not end well for Frannie, alas.


End file.
